


Sublimation

by aperture_living



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Masturbation, Other, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aperture_living/pseuds/aperture_living
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bat wasn’t a sword. It didn’t cleave through skin like a sharpened piece of glass would ease through butter, didn’t create quick deaths, didn’t allow for clean kills or mercy. It didn’t permit a single strike in the chest to end the disgusting existence of those around him; it didn’t keep things short and sweet and easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sublimation

A bat wasn’t a sword. It didn’t cleave through skin like a sharpened piece of glass would ease through butter, didn’t create quick deaths, didn’t allow for clean kills or mercy. It didn’t permit a single strike in the chest to end the disgusting existence of those around him; it didn’t keep things short and sweet and easy. 

No, a bat wasn’t a sword, _his_ bat wasn’t a sword; bats were far more visceral, intimate, long-winded. He wouldn’t have traded it for anything, either, wouldn’t have entertained any notion of giving up the weight of the metal in his hand or the wind resistance as he swung it. He breathed for its war-cry, the solid dull _thunk_ against skin, the shatter of bones (sometimes, with the right directional shot, bones that were available for all to see!), the shift of vital organs before they exploded still in their pliable bruising prison. He found solace in how each battle took time, took planning, how it wasn’t one strike but several, sometimes innumerable if the mood hit, enough to make his shoulders and back sweetly ache with a throb of overuse.

And that was how it _should_ be, and that was why the bat felt so _right_. Purification was an important and vital mission, but penance, penance for letting it get to this point, wasn’t that just as important? Set an example? Give a warning to the guardians, let them fear him before he got there? Let them understand the force that was hunting them down and maybe, simply maybe, understand just why it had to be done?

The savagery of the bat was the only way. This wasn’t a clean path, this wasn’t a clean mission, it wasn’t simple, it wasn’t easy, but it was his, his to make his own. Let the heroes have their swords, their simple ideas; he was a purifier, not a hero. There was a difference, crucial if one peered between the lines, but who really did that? 

This tale, like most compelling and memorable stories, was wrapped in blood and the warm appeal of violence for a greater purpose. 

The guardian of Zone 2 lay at his feet, unmoving, and the adrenaline’s natural exhilaration wasn’t dropping from the Batter’s veins, not yet, maybe not ever with how he felt. Feathers and blood laid scattered around, caught up in his cleats, splashed across his face in warm fresh streaks, and he surveyed the carnage with a gaze that couldn't stop _moving_. Appraising. Proud. His hands (the fingers squeezinglooseningsqueezingloosening around the metal bat’s grip) still rang with every slam of his weapon into wingsabdomenlegs _head_ , and the air continued to carry the unforgiving raw smell of the fight, the fall of the fallible and weak under the might of his own truth.

The Batter licked his lips and tasted the impure blood that had rested there. It was a reward, a prize, a hunt where you ate what you caught, tasted it, and showed your dominion in actions. It was bitter and metallic, artificial in a way he wasn’t expecting, but it was defining proof of power, this wretched taste on his tongue. 

He liked it.

He disappeared back into the library, tracking down an empty storage room, bat shaking in his hand. Locking the door behind him, he turned on enough of a light to see by: against one wall were a few janitorial pieces, some errant boxes of books (some fake, some real) across from him, and a broken mirror sitting off in the corner. The dim reflection showed a man covered in violence and strength, one that grinned beneath the brim of his hat, one who knew he was doing what was necessary. Here was a man that never wavered; here was a man who was _sure, perfect, ideal_. Red flecked over his jersey (he would have to get another from Zacharie, later, later) like a painting created by a firehose rather than a brush, and yet still the stubborn feathers clung to the mess. 

Just as the adrenaline still clung to him. Alive. Well. _Right_.

Kneeling down on the floor, he brought the bat to his lips, letting his tongue roll out and run the length of it, slow, savoring. The blood was still warm, but getting tacky, thickening with time and air. Was it the bat or the remains that swarmed his senses with metal? Did it matter? It spread over his tongue, washed down into his mouth, and he watched himself in the mirror all the while. He licked it like a prayer, a blessing, but it was only dominion. When he swallowed the red, it was only power.

And as he watched himself, it was only confirmation that everything was uniformly right, that this was a mission he wouldn’t be swayed from. Every step he had taken had been correct, had been justified, and he had the backing he needed to get through this in a fashion befitting the task. It was perfect. 

There wasn’t a moment’s contemplation on why he should or shouldn’t fish his hard cock out of his pants, why he should or shouldn’t wrap his free hand around the base and start the smooth stroking as he watched himself in the mirror; he had already proven to himself, to the world, that everything behind his actions were what was needed. Could this be any different? His tongue slid up over the blood at the tip of the bat, his lips pursing as he sucked the stubborn life’s fluid from it, and he fought the urge to close his eyes at how good the taste was while his grip squeezed, clutched, moving quicker, faster, _demanding_. 

It would be over soon, this world, all the worlds, the Queen, him, and two more, two more, and then--

His reflection’s grin was all teeth above the weapon, and he swallowed a piece of leftover bird flesh as he came, the final purification in a purified place. He had done the same in Dedan’s office chair before this, and he would do it in the next zone beyond. 

Climbing to his feet, he fixed his clothes and licked a bit of blood that was caught on the corner of his mouth. He needed to get back to his waiting Add-Ons, needed to get back to what he did best, what he did perfectly. Resting his bat on his shoulder, he headed out into the black and white, a newly made world that matched him in all ways, making sure to turn off the light behind him.


End file.
